Death's Sweet Echo

by Maynard Sims

  In 1930 Burton had seen his fortune vanish within the space of a year. Poor investments, and reckless spending on a number of business ventures that turned into white elephants, had seen his wealth wither to its current parlous state.

  While William Burton’s fortune dwindled, so Laurence Mayfield’s increased. Never one to take his own financial advice, despite giving it wholeheartedly to others, Burton included, Laurence Mayfield rode out the economic storm and watched his fortune grow.

  'Look, everyone,' Estelle announced to the room, 'William Burton’s here.'

  A half-hearted cheer rippled from the assembled guests, and Mayfield was on his feet, striding across the room to shake Burton’s hand warmly.

  'Good to see you, Bill. An easy drive, I take it.'

  'Not too bad at all,' Burton said. 'I came up on the back roads. Not a lot of traffic, really.'

  'A shrewd move,' Mayfield said. 'Frank Parsons came up last night and was stuck on the Great Cambridge Road for over an hour. That’s right, Frank, isn’t it?'

  Parsons, an elderly bank-manager type with a paunch and a shrivelled wife, gave a nod and a grimace.

  'We’ll be eating soon,' Estelle said. 'I hope you’re hungry, William. We have a five-bird roast, and our new cook’s made a plum duff for dessert, as well as her special Christmas pudding. She made it over two months ago and has been drizzling it with brandy nearly every day – she’s so clever, a real find.'

  ‘Lovely, I’m sure,' Burton said, and handed her the present.

  'Oh, William, you shouldn’t have,' she said. 'I’ll put it under the tree for later.'

  Mayfield slapped him on the back. 'Thank you, Bill, but you really shouldn’t have bothered. I know things are tight with you at the moment.'

  'I can afford it,' Burton snapped at him.

  'Hey,' Mayfield said. 'Easy, boy. Don’t take offence.'

  Estelle was looking at him, a sad expression in her eyes. 'Larry didn’t mean anything by it, William, I’m sure.'

  Burton shook his head. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I’m a little strung out… after the drive, you know?'

  'Of course,' Estelle said kindly. 'Go and join the others. Sit yourself down and Larry will get you a drink.' She wafted out of the room and Burton made himself comfortable on one of the three large, leather chesterfields.

  ***

  Dinner was served in the Mayfields’ spacious and rather lavish dining room. A huge mahogany table dominated the room and stood there, groaning, under the weight of enough food to feed a small country.

  The table seated twenty-eight and every seat was taken. Mayfield sat at the head in an antique oak carver whilst Estelle sat to his left on one of the leather-upholstered chairs that matched the mahogany of the table.

  Burton sat halfway along on the right-hand side, between Parsons, who was indeed a banker, and a man who introduced himself to him as Wilfred Cooper, an architect who lived in Hertfordshire. From where he sat he could see Mayfield and Estelle, and he could feel only envy watching the way they hung on each other’s every sentence and laughed enthusiastically at the weak Christmas cracker jokes and riddles.

  Reluctantly, he accepted the offer of a party hat from Agnes Parsons, who was sitting opposite him and who had pulled a cracker with him, and had insisted he place the cerise paper crown on his head. He looked ridiculous, and was starting to wonder why he had come when all his instincts had warned him not to.

  ‘We’ll listen to the king on the radio and then we’ll play some games,’ Estelle announced, as a whole Stilton was brought to the table, and the guests who hadn’t gorged themselves on the roast dinner, duff and pudding started to make inroads into the blue-veined cheese wheel.

  As port was served and cigars lit, the wireless was switched on and hummed into life. An air of expectant excitement settled over the room, and then a radio announcer made the introduction.

  ‘This is the BBC’s Empire Service. And now, a Christmas message to you all from our sovereign, King George the Fifth.’

  A hush fell over the dining room, and the king’s voice intoned from the radio’s large speaker.

  The royal message washed over Burton. He wasn’t listening. There was nothing the monarch could say that would make him feel better about his own disaster of a life. Instead he stared his old friend Mayfield, puffing away on a fat Havana cigar and sipping at a ruby red glass of fine port, at the same time as using his knife to pop crumbs of Stilton into his mouth.

  Burton glanced up at the long case clock that stood against the wall and watched as the minute hand crawled ever so slowly around the etched and engraved silver dial. He was counting the hours before he could respectfully leave here and take the drive home.

  After what seemed a lifetime, the king finally stopped droning on.

  ‘Let’s play a game.’ The speaker was Agnes Parsons. The dinner had certainly given her a new lease of life. It was that, or it may have been the red wine she had been constantly sipping throughout the meal.

  From the wireless, a familiar drum roll introduced the national anthem, and the people around the table got to their feet. As the last bar of the anthem faded away, they resumed their seats, except for the Mayfields. Laurence Mayfield went across to the wireless and switched it off, and Estelle clapped her hands together to draw everyone’s attention.

  ‘Let’s retire to the morning room. There are cards for those of you who want to play, or backgammon if you need something a little more taxing, and those of you who want to take forty winks… well, feel free. We’re not going to stand on ceremony here.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Larry, perhaps you can prepare the drawing room for party games.’

  ‘But of course, poppet,’ Mayfield said with a smile, and everyone trooped out of the dining room.

  Burton had no interest in playing mindless card games, had little desire to play backgammon, and wasn’t in the slightest bit tired. Instead he positioned an easy chair in front of the French doors and stared out at the winter garden Mayfield and his gardening staff had created, until the light faded from the sky, and the conifers and clipped topiary shapes of box and privet blended into the shadows, and it was time for the games.

  ***

  'So, what are we going to play?' Laurence Mayfield said as everyone assembled in the drawing room. The centre of the floor had been cleared, all the chairs pushed back to the walls. A slightly smaller cousin of the Christmas tree in the hall stood in the corner, this one festooned with pine cones threaded onto string, tangerines that hung from silken nets, and small electric lights in gaily coloured holders shaped like fairy carriages.

  Burton found himself a seat in the far corner of the room and sat there as the party guests called out their suggestions for games they could play, each one more preposterous and unappealing than the last.

  'Charades!'

  'Blind Man’s Bluff!'

  'Squeak, Piggy, Squeak!'

  'Oh I know,' Agnes Parsons cried. 'Let’s play “I’m Here!” I love that game. Such fun.'

  There was murmured assent from the assembled thong.

  Agnes Parsons was beginning to emerge as the life and soul of the party, Burton thought sourly. Trust her to suggest a game that he’d never heard of. It was bound to be awful.

  'Cheer up, William. You look like you’ve swallowed a cupful of vinegar with a salt chaser.'

  Burton jerked around and stared into the smiling face of Estelle, who had taken the seat beside him. Above the smiling face, the silver-blonde hair was still trapped in the elegant Marcel-waves. She was now wearing red velvet, although he had not seen her go and change. She’d applied makeup to her porcelain skin, and her cheeks glowed with the help of some artful shading with rouge. Her lips were bright, bee stung, and red to match her dress, and her eyes were delicately shaded, enhancing their delicious cobalt blue, and, for a moment, Burton’s breath caught in his throat as the memory of losing her to the much-better-looking, and wealthier, Mayfield stung like a viper’s
bite.

  'I’m not really one for games,' he said, gathering himself and regaining his breath.

  'Me neither,' she said. 'But Larry loves them, and a girl’s got to do, et cetera, et cetera.' She sat down next to him and took his hand. 'Just watch, William. You never know, you might enjoy it.' Burton stared down at Estelle’s hand holding his and then looked across at Mayfield. He was watching the two of them and smiling broadly.

  'Right,' Mayfield said. 'Who’s going to go first?'

  A young man with ginger, brilliantined hair, who had introduced himself to Burton as Max Shepherd, stepped forward. 'May I go first?' he said.

  'As if we expected anything less from you, Max?' Mayfield said. 'And who wants to chance their arm against our reigning champion?'

  Agnes Parsons pushed her husband to his feet. 'My Frank will take him on,' she said confidently.

  It was obvious that Frank Parsons did not share his wife’s confidence in him, but he stepped forward anyway.

  'He doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell, poor devil,' Estelle whispered to Burton and stood up.

  Mayfield looked to her. 'If you’ll do the honours, poppet.'

  'But of course,' she said, and accepted two silk scarves from another of the guests. 'If I can have the contestants in the centre of the room.'

  Shepherd and Parsons moved into the middle of the ornate Persian carpet and stood side by side.

  Estelle moved around them until she was standing directly behind Shepherd. 'If you would, Max.'

  Shepherd bent his knees to bring his height down to match hers. Deftly, she tied the silk scarf around his eyes. 'Your turn, Frank,' she said, moving to a position behind Parsons.

  There was no need for Parsons to bend at the knee. He was slightly shorter than Estelle. He stood there with a rather anxious look on his face as Estelle blindfolded him.

  'Well, spin them round,' one of the guests called out.

  'We’ll have no catcalling,' Estelle admonished the vocal guest with mock severity. 'After all, we pride ourselves on being a civilized society here at Mayfields’.'

  'Apologies, m’lady,' the guest said, getting into the spirit of the proceedings.

  Taking the contestants in turn by the shoulders, she turned them round and around until they stood there, mildly dizzy and disorientated.

  'Right, gentlemen – if you would, kneel.'

  Both Shepherd and Parsons did as they were told, and Estelle adjusted their positions until they were four feet apart and facing each other.

  A grinning Mayfield stepped forward holding four rolled-up newspapers, bound at each end with sticky tape, and placed them on a velvet cushion Estelle now had in her hands. She walked forward and stood before Parsons. 'Challenger, choose your weapon.'

  Tentatively, Parsons obliged, taking one of the newspapers and hefting it in his hand. 'The Times'? he said hopefully.

  'Bad luck, old man, you picked the Telegraph,' Mayfield said.

  Shepherd chose next.

  'Now he’s got The Times,' Mayfield said. 'Don’t worry, Frank, everyone roots for the underdog.'

  'Right,' Estelle said. 'Let battle commence and may the best man win.'

  A hush fell over the room, a hush broken when Shepherd called out, 'I’m here!'

  Parsons turned his head to the right and left, trying to ascertain the direction of Shepherd’s voice, and struck out with the newspaper. His blow sailed past Shepherd’s chest, the momentum of the swing sending Parsons wildly off balance, and it was only Mayfield’s timely intervention that stopped him toppling to the floor.

  A rather breathless Parsons thanked him and knelt up straight. He took a breath and called out weakly, 'I’m here!'

  Shepherd’s approach was more measured. Like a big cat sensing its prey, he shuffled forward a few inches on his knees, raised the newspaper above his head and brought it slashing down, catching Parsons a cracking blow across the thigh.

  'No score,' Mayfield cried. 'Only strikes above the chest count here. Your turn, Frank.'

  The game continued in similar fashion and Burton watched, fascinated despite himself. As a few more blows went wide of their mark, the audience of Christmas guests joined in the battle vocally, calling their support for their favourites. One wag gave a false call of 'I’m here!' and sent Parsons lurching sideways. The caller earned a reproving look from Estelle.

  The result of the contest was never really in doubt. If Shepherd could not guess where Parsons was from his calls of 'I’m here!' the older man’s laboured, wheezing breaths were a certain giveaway.

  At the five-minute mark, Shepherd pulled back his arm and brought the newspaper scything down, catching Parsons on top of his bald head.

  'We have a winner,' Estelle announced.

  With a whoop of victorious delight, the young man sprang to his feet and tore off his blindfold, tossing it into the air.

  As Mayfield helped a slightly dazed and confused-looking Parsons to his feet, Estelle called out, 'And the next contestants, if you please.' And so the ritual began again with two new guests taking their place in the centre of the rug.

  The game seemed to go on forever, and Burton grew bored. There seemed to be a knockout system in play, as revellers took their place on the rug and were dispatched by their opponents.

  After an hour of mindless swiping and striking, Estelle raised her hand. 'Time for a pause,' she said. 'Eggnog and cherry brandy, anyone?'

  With relief, Burton excused himself and took himself off to one of the house’s many bathrooms.

  He found one on the first floor, went inside, and locked the door. He had no real desire to urinate, but was becoming desperate for a respite from the artificial gaiety below. With a long sigh, he sat down on the lavatory pan and closed his eyes.

  This was his idea of hell on earth, being forced to spend his time with people he barely knew, playing puerile party games, whilst the woman he still loved with all his heart made doe-eyes at the man who was partly responsible for his decline into penury – a man who had swooped in to take advantage of his misfortune and stolen his bride-to-be away from under his nose. 'Merry Christmas, William Burton,' he muttered to himself bitterly. 'Prize fool and bloody idiot.'

  He came out of the bathroom after a suitable time had passed and was about to go back downstairs when he heard voices coming from along the landing.

  'He’s as much fun as rain in the middle of June.' Mayfield’s voice was coming from behind a closed door. 'We should never have invited him. It was your idea, I seem to remember.'

  'Don’t be unkind, Larry. He’s on his own, living in that hovel of a flat. If I hadn’t invited him, he would have probably sat there with ham and eggs for his Christmas dinner, and no one even to share that with.' This from Estelle. 'Inviting him here was the least I could do.'

  'And in trying to assuage your guilt for dumping him for someone with better prospects, who could give you the lifestyle you desired, you burden us all with him.'

  'But William’s very sweet, and I did love him… once.'

  'But not any more,' Mayfield said. 'Burton is yesterday’s man, and perhaps seeing us here, with all our friends, having a wonderful time, will make him realise that once and for all.'

  'Sometimes you can be very cruel, Larry,' she said, and Burton turned on his heel and went back downstairs.

  He entered the drawing room to find the party in full swing, with guests sitting, sipping from glasses of cherry brandy and eggnog and chatting animatedly. Shepherd was holding court, regaling his fans with tales of the strategy used to defeat Parsons in the game, and another guest had started a fire in the grate of the huge baronial fireplace, and was sitting on a leather footstool in front of it, jabbing at the logs with a long, brass-handled poker that had a sharp point and a wicked-looking hook at the business end for poking and turning the logs.

  Burton took a cherry brandy from a silver tray on the sideboard and reclaimed his seat. A few moments later Estelle came
and sat down next to him again. She stared across at Max Shepherd and clicked her tongue. 'Pompous idiot,' she said to Burton. 'Anyone would think he had just won Wimbledon instead of knocking seven bells out of poor Frank Parsons.'

  'Hmm,' Burton agreed. 'He needs taking down a peg or two.'

  'Will you do it, William?'

  Burton looked aghast. 'Me? Good gracious, no. I’ve told you already, I’m not really one for games.'

  'Please, William,' Estelle said. 'I know you have the beating of him.'

  'Do you really think so?' Burton said, pleased, if not convinced, by her assessment of him.

  'I know so,' she said. 'You could take on Larry next, and he’ll let you win, if I ask him to. Once you’ve beaten him in the knockout round it will be plain sailing to reach the final to face Max.'

  'Why doesn’t Larry take him on himself?'

  'He could do, and he’d probably win, but Max works for him and it would be bad form to beat an employee; besides, Larry’s the host, and it would never do if he were seen to triumph in his own home.' She gripped Burton’s hand for the second time that evening. 'No,' she said. 'You must do it. You have no track record in this game, and Max’s defeat will be that much harder for him to bear, knowing he’s been trounced by a complete novice.'

  'But what if I can’t beat him?'

  'But I have every confidence in you, William,' she said. 'Do it, for me, please?'

  Burton demurred again, but stared at Estelle’s beseeching gaze. 'Do it, for me, please.' It would be churlish to refuse, especially as the invitation to be here came from her hand. She had wanted him here, not her husband. He could not refuse her this one favour.

  'All right, I’ll do it.'

  Estelle’s grip on his hand tightened. 'Thank you so much, William,' she said. 'I’ll go and have a word with Larry before we start again, to tell him to let you have the victory.'

  'Do you think he’ll agree?'

  'Oh, yes, he’ll agree… if I ask him nicely.'

  She stood up and went off in search of her husband. Burton himself stood, and went across to the sideboard and helped himself to another cherry brandy. Dutch courage, he thought to himself, and smiled at the spectacle of an insufferably ebullient Max Shepherd continuing to bore the pants off his audience.